


December 1: double word score

by dizzy



Series: 2017 (the darkest timeline) daily fic advent [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12886377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy/pseuds/dizzy
Summary: prompt:board game night with Bryony and Wirrow





	December 1: double word score

The flat smells like mulled wine Bryony brought to warm up on the stove, like the vanilla candles Phil lit just before their friends arrived, like the faint remnants of the cooked bird they had delivered earlier in the day and demolished with gusto. 

“Friendmas,” Phil always calls it, practically glowing with the pleasant responsibility of setting their home in order for guests. 

Dan's duty right now is getting the game set up while Phil tops off the drinks. This is not what teenage Dan, seventeen years old and searching for himself in every corner, thought adulthood would be. 

It's way damn better. 

*

"Abandon. That's ten points." Bryony lifts up the 'n'. "On a double word score, so twenty." 

The pencil scratches across Phil's scorekeeping notepad. 

Wirrow studies his letters and picks up four of them. "Ment. Abandonment. No double word score, so just sixteen." 

Dan's eyes narrow. Abandonment now sits alongside neglect, wither, leave, and cast. 

(As in, Wirrow had said as he played his c, s, and t off the a in leave, cast away.) 

"You're not that clever," Dan says. 

"What?" Bryony's the picture of wide-eyed innocence. It doesn't suit her. "Just playing the letters as we get them. 

*

Phil’s jumper is a rich cranberry color and his jeans have a smear of flour across the thigh where they tried to make homemade cakes. Their real life baking ventures end about as well as their on-camera ones, but with Phil’s mum on facetime to them the whole time they mixed ingredients they’re delectable in taste if not appearance. 

There’s a happiness to days like this that Dan wants to bottle up for those other days when this contentment feels like a work of fiction, a page out of someone else’s book. But it’s not; right here and now it’s real and it’s his and he’s going to enjoy it, unevenly iced cakes and ridiculously pouting friends and songs he’s heard too many times this month already. 

*

"You'll send us postcards once in awhile, right?" Bryony asks. 

"Telegrams?" Wirrow adds. 

"Morse code?" Bryony suggests. 

"Carrier pigeons?" 

Phil's face lights up at Wirrow's last remark. 

"No," Dan says, reaching out to slap Phil's wrist. "You are not training pigeons for any purpose." 

"I've already trained them to come get food," Phil says. 

"No, they've trained you to bring them food." 

Phil waves a hand dismissively. "Anyway, we're not going to be gone that long!" 

"That's what you said last time," Wirrow points out. 

Dan just sighs. 

*

There’s a wine flush to Phil’s cheeks and he hasn’t stopped talking for the full five minutes since they showed their guests to the door.

It’s half one, later than any of them intended, but good times make the clock run faster. 

“Hey,” Dan says, voice pitched low because somehow adulthood has changed the shape arousal takes in him. Some kind of contentment that burrows under his skin, makes his eyes linger on different things than it used to. Right here, right now, Phil’s never been sexier; the way he fits so perfectly into this life that they’ve built together. 

It’s hot that Phil is his _partner_ , that they do stupid shit grown up shit like have friends over and simmer wine and spices on the stove and talk quietly about how bad the underground is and less quietly about the state of politics and the world and laugh until they can’t breathe over jokes no one else would understand but their little unit of four. 

“Hey,” Phil says, eyes flickering to Dan. There’s a little smile on his face and Dan thinks that Phil is probably thinking the same thing he is. “Should we wait until morning to tidy?” 

“Mm,” Dan hums out an answer and holds a hand out. “I think so.” 

*

They do tidy in the morning, wearing pyjamas and barely done rubbing sleep from their eyes. 

It’s Dan who finds the Scrabble board, laughing and calling Phil over to see. Written in square tiled letters across the middle it says: 

_happy xmas (u r still the worst)_


End file.
